Author's Notes: I am playing Skyrim with my lovely character Myrwen and decided to give her a backstory. Just writing short drabbles for now :) I also have screenshots which are hosted by external sites. You can access them by consulting my profile :)
English is not my first language, I am sure you will notice that.
Disclaimer: The Elder Srolls V: Skyrim, characters and places mentioned here belong to Bethesda. Myrwen belongs to me.
Often Skyrim perceives Myrwen is a stranger and puts her to test. Over and over again this Altmer finds herself threading harsh landscapes, climbing impossible mountains, never knowing if the next creature she finds on the road ahead brings virtue or ill-intent. Each and every day brings a new revelation, a welcoming challenge or a survival's trial. The nights are no different, plagued with bloodthirsty vampires disturbing settlements at random, or savage werewolves roaming the wilds. It reminds her of those times, not long ago, when each morning dared her to remain unscathed till nightfall, only to face yet another similar morning.
This makes her miss the warm and appealing corners of the distant land she calls home, the lush fields of the Isles, the exquisite architecture of Alinor, the glistening waters of Abecean, as blue as she has never seen elsewhere. She misses everything, everyone she was born to serve, before they were dominated by fear and tyranny, before she was made to take her leave in order to protect.
But sometimes she forgets this dreadful past for a few moments, as she stands to admire the small beautiful things laying here and there in this foreign land. The snow silently falling, dressing the world in the purest white; the unassuming settlements, built in wood and straw. The simplicity of life, the people's strength, the children's laugh. The seasons barely subduing this Skyrim she learned to know – and even care about - tough and rough and wild as Her own people.
But none of those is the memory she treasures the most, nor they present themselves as clearly to her as if it had happened mere moments ago. For she remembers this house, and the smell of fur and spices, steel and burning wood. She remembers the forge shrieking, the mill working, the river flowing. She remembers a little girl asking why everyone calls her a High Elf given how short she is, the laugh that followed, her own laugh assumed dead.
But most of all she remembers those eyes, pledging humanity, seeking forgiveness. She remembers the weary smile of a war-beaten soul. She remembers the words and the silence and every sentence, whispered, for they were not alone. She remembers the cold waned as she leaned against him, falling into the peaceful rest she longed for, yet not before getting his promise that he would still return her home if she died.
It is but a memory forged from blood and ashes, the unexpected aftermath of a day she would rather forget, a memory that should probably be best to let fall into oblivion. But she feels powerless to prevent this memory to assault her heart again and again, so she finally concedes it to overcome her, as it is but a memory of a single night back then, of something that never happened and never will, of something that was lost and will not come back. It is all that she has, after all. A memory.
It gives her unrest, this memory, and though she has lived enough to fathom what it means, she finds it hard to admit it so. She had seen towers topple and kingdoms fall, she had escaped torture and death, she had seen people rise and perish, laying their lives to waste by her hand, before her, for her. Enough ages have passed to make her neglect such utopic states of mind, entwined she is with her own destiny. But now it brutally returns to her, on the other side of the world, in the backyard town of an unforgiving land; a courtesy of the World-Eater himself and a rushed decision made right outside Helgen's keep, while as confused and vulnerable as only one can be when trapped between the executioner's axe and dragon's fire.
Though this memory is particularly clear, time has been slowly and unforgivingly splitting it into fragments, mere shades of reality. The more she tries to grasp them, the more they slip away to the depths of her mind, leaving only shards in their wake. Her good sense's dismissal as she conceded to stay for the night, leaving only at dawn's first light instead. The blatant lie he told her, that morning was yet to arrive as dawn covered the world in gold. The creation of something still frail and fleeting, quickly slayed by both as soon as they parted ways. The cruel acceptance of what was not meant to be.
But she refuses to let this memory go, keeping it as close to her heart as she can, because this is all she is allowed to have. She recalls it each and every night as long as she breathes, because this all she is allowed to do. For a Queen, no matter how forgotten and shattered her land and even herself might be, must live solely for her people and home and lineage, not according to her own selfish desires.
This is but a single, acquitted memory. Her own personal kingdom.
She wishes to see him again.